


Comfort

by talefeathers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bromance, Cute, Drabble, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, this is hard to tag um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talefeathers/pseuds/talefeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Combeferre heard a familiar (but colorful) swear float through the front door over the sounds of the lock being wrestled with, he exhaled, allowing relief to wash through him.  He looked up from his laptop just in time to see Enjolras ram the door open with his shoulder, soaking wet and sporting a bloody lip.  He closed his eyes and grimaced when his eyes landed on Combeferre.  It was 2AM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vespertide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vespertide/gifts).



When Combeferre heard a familiar (but colorful) swear float through the front door over the sounds of the lock being wrestled with, he exhaled, allowing relief to wash through him. He looked up from his laptop just in time to see Enjolras ram the door open with his shoulder, soaking wet and sporting a bloody lip. He closed his eyes and grimaced when his eyes landed on Combeferre. It was 2AM.

“I’m sorry —”

“How bad are you hurt?” He’d given up asking Enjolras what had happened. The answer was always the same: someone had been wrong.

“It’s nothing; you didn’t have to wait up.”

Combeferre shrugged, putting his laptop aside and crossing the room to examine his friend for himself. “It’s okay, I couldn’t sleep. Go and get dried off.”

Enjolras shuffled off, shoulders sloped with guilt. Combeferre’s lips twitched in a bitter grin as he rooted through a cabinet for some tea. Because it was kind of funny that this was becoming something of a routine. Mostly, though, it was worrisome. He’d have to ask Courfeyrac if he could figure out what had gotten into their chief lately.

Enjolras returned wearing his favorite sweatpants and an old drumline T-shirt, yawning into his hand. Combeferre handed him the tea and led him to the couch, where they sat side-by-side, Enjolras’s head finding Combeferre’s shoulder in no time. Combeferre reached up and gently scratched the back of Enjolras’s head at that perfect spot that only he could hit, that spot that never failed to slip Enjolras’s eyes shut. Enjolras sighed and let his muscles unknot.

“Don’t you have an umbrella?” Combeferre asked. He turned just in time to catch Enjolras’s sleepy smile.

“It broke.”

“When?”

“When I hit that frat boy with it.”

Combeferre tried to roll his eyes and sigh exasperatedly, but what he ended up doing was giving a rather unattractive snort of laughter.

“I’m sorry, what was that, Gandhi?” Enjolras asked, giving his friend a little poke in the side.

“Drink your tea,” Combeferre replied, retaliating by giving one of Enjolras’s golden curls a little tug. Enjolras snickered, but complied. There was a long, comfortable silence.

“Thank you,” Enjolras murmured when he’d finished, placing his empty mug on the coffee table. 

Combeferre smiled. “You know I don’t mind.”


End file.
